


Sins of Our Fathers

by LostMyHeartToHim



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Canon Compliant, Child Abuse, Depression, Dragon Sickness, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Self-Hatred, Stream of Consciousness, Thorin doesn't abuse a child if that's what you think, Thorin-centric, Unreliable Narrator, basically covers his whole life so Bilbo will only show up in the later chapters, but really when have my fics ever been happy, mostly anyway, this is not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-18 05:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8150915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostMyHeartToHim/pseuds/LostMyHeartToHim
Summary: "Only later, when he is older and finally allowed to go outside the gates, does he find out, that what he thought to be stars were only fireflies. The real stars seem cold and distant in comparison."





	1. The Days Before

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a native speaker, but I'm self-aware enough to know that my English skills are more than adequate, so don't let that deter you. But if you see a comma that's out of place (or any other mistake), please tell me, because I still have no idea how those work in English.

One of Thorin's earliest memories is of starlight. Erebor was mighty kingdom but it was buried deep underground. The only light provided was the light of the torches and great fires burning in enormous fireplaces that reached the far-off ceiling. So when he first saw stars dancing across the roof of his chambers, chasing after one another, he was enchanted. He couldn't remember ever seeing anything so beautiful.

Only later, when he is older and finally allowed to go outside the gates, does he find out, that what he thought to be stars were only fireflies. The real stars seem cold and distant in comparison.

(Years later, when he tells that story to Bilbo, he tells him it sounds sad.)

He remembers other things too. Ones that are not as strange and disconcerting.

His father's laughter and the singing of his mother.

The way his grandmother smelled of roses.

How his small hands gripped the clasps in his grandfather's beard.

 

~O~

Thorin falls in love when he is seven. The first time he sees him he knows that he would do anything for him. He is so small but so perfect. Everything is perfect about him. His short fuzzy hair that glows in the lamplight like molten gold and his small limbs and his voice. Thorin swore he had never heard a sweeter sound. He would never love anyone as much as he loved him. His mother smiles at him with tired eyes and beckons him forward.

"Come, Thorin, and hold your brother."

Of course, a few years later, when Dis is born, he ends up breaking that promise.

~O~

Dis does not have an easy birth. She comes to the world lifeless and covered in blood. The healers manage to resurrect her, in the end, but his mother is not as fortunate. His last memory of his mother ends up being her face contorted in pain, just before he is shooed away from the birthing chamber, her screams still echoing in his ears.

In the funeral, he holds Frerin by the hand and cradles the newly born princess to his chest with the other. Their father is too much wrapped in his own grief to comfort them, so Thorin straightens his back under the weight of his own sorrow and takes care of his siblings. Some say he is too young, but his grandfather insists that it will teach him of responsibility and of duty.

(After, he thinks it's fitting that he learned to hide his pain so young.)

~O~

When his siblings are young they follow him everywhere. He will go about his day, performing his duties and they are never far behind, like ducklings trailing after their mother. Thorin pretends he doesn't see them and shares amused glances with Balin and Dwalin.

"They admire you," Balin says to him once. Thorin blushes lightly, pleased internally before he sees Dwalin smirking at him. They both ignore Balin's exasperated sigh in the following scuffle.

Eventually, it becomes a bit of a game. He will let them trail him for a while and then he suddenly turns around and charges after them. They always run away screaming and giggling.

One day they bump straight into their grandfather in the hallway. They sober up right away and anxiously wait for his reaction.

"What is this?" he asks, his stern gaze moving over them. Thorin steps up in front of his siblings.

"We were playing a game, grandfather. I'm sorry. I take full responsibility." He lowers his head, waiting for a verdict. He doesn't see his grandfather's gaze softening, but seconds later he feels a finger raising his chin.

"Thorin, what I need you and your siblings to understand is that you are not ordinary children. You are royalty and must act that way. You have the responsibility to show a good example to your people. And that involves always conducting yourself with the utmost dignity."

"I understand, grandfather. We will not do it again."

"Now, I didn't say you could not play."

"Grandfather?"

"You can play all you like, as long as you perform your duties and play only in the royal quarters."

"Yes, sir," said the now smiling children

"That said, I don't think there is anyone around." His grandfather winked. Eyes widening the three children exchanged panicked looks before charging down the hall, Thror chasing after them, yelling like an enraged bull.

Their laughter echoes across the kingdom.

~O~

Thorin is fifteen summers old when he meets the Lord of Greenwood for the first time.

There is no denying his beauty, but it's the beauty of the stars, cool and distant, only to be admired from afar. The King's eyes are the same shade as his grandfather's, but whereas Thror's eyes are warm like the blue flames of the smithy, his are like the ice that covers the lake in the winter. Thorin tries not to shiver under that gaze, determined to make his grandfather proud.

Thandruil's cool eyes sweep over him before he asks him (and his voice reminds him of the bitter winds of the winter):

"Tell me, child, do you wish to become like your grandfather?"

He blinks at the odd question, but answers anyway, Balin's lectures about proper manners filling his ears.

"Yes, sire. Very much so." He puffs out his chest, feeling proud of his grandfather.

The elf gazes at him for a moment longer, and Thorin gets the feeling that he is looking into his very soul.

"What a pity," King Thranduil finally pronounces and sweeps past him, his long robes gliding behind him. Thorin stares after him, not understanding, and feeling vaguely insulted on his grandfather's behalf.

~O~

Thorin is twenty when he starts training to become the head of the guards. He hears his grandfather and father arguing about it when they think he cannot hear them. His father claims he is too young and that he should be allowed to be a child still.

"He is young, but he is also a Durin. He will become a king one day."

"But that will not be many years hence. Please, father, let him have his childhood." His father sounds desperate, begging for his sake. Thorin steps into their line of sight.

"It's alright, Father. I want this." Thrain looks ready to argue but seems to think better of it and sighs tiredly instead.

"Very well," he says and leaves the room silently, defeat written in his features. Thorin feels rather bad and intends to go after him. A hand lands on his shoulder, stalling him. Thror turns him around and touches their foreheads gently together.

"I am proud of you, _Uzfakuh_ " Thorin feels warm from head to toe and he smiles widely. To his embarrassment, he feels moisture gathering to the corners of his eyes.

He never does go after his father.

~O~

A few years later, the Arkenstone is uncovered from the heart of the mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uzfakuh=my greatest joy
> 
> Might edit this later. I won't promise that I will update regularly, but I will try my best.
> 
> Please comment! <3
> 
> Be aware that the warnings will be in effect in the next chapter.


	2. The Days During

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you or someone you know, is in a situation similar to that depicted in this work, please contact your local helpline or the police. Abuse will not be described in great detail but if abuse is triggering to you, please proceed with caution. And do remember that Thorin is scared and not thinking clearly and should not be taken as a reliable narrator.

When Thorin first sees the stone, he is as taken with it as everyone else is. It truly is a beautiful thing. His head feels light.

( _There's only the stone. Only this precious stone. Nothing else matters._ )

He startles when he feels a tug on his sleeve. He looks down at the small hand trying to get his attention. It belongs to his sister, who holds out her arms for him to pick her up. Truthfully, she's too big for it, but he does not find it in himself to care.

The stone doesn't stand a chance against the smile on Dis' face.

~0~

His grandfather grows cold and distant. He gazes at the rock like he used to look at his grandchildren. With adoration. With love. But there is something wrong with this love. It is not love you should feel towards a thing, an object. It's possessive. Oppressing.

~0~

Thorin watches from the balcony as Thror walks among his gold. His arms are spread out as to embrace it. The jewels reflect red light on his face, painting strange shadows on his face, making it look twisted and sick.

There's cold feeling in his gut. It creeps through him like a vine of a poisonous plant. Twisting around his lungs and seeping poison into his bloodstream. It whispers to him. Words fell and treacherous.

It whispers to him. Words fell and treacherous.

_He is mad._

~0~

There's an incident with a few goblins in March of that year. Thorin is on his way to the gates when he is waylaid by his grandfather. Thror grasps him by the shoulders and looks keenly in his eyes. Thorin doesn't like the way his eyes gleam. He looks feverish but there's no warmth on the hands holding him. They're cold. Cold like the treasure they have been rifling through all morning.

" _Masmith_ , you will stay here" he demands, shaking him. Thorin frowns, wondering what this could be about. His grandfather has always encouraged him to take on more responsibilities, not less.

"But I have duties to attend to."

"NO!" The roar is sudden, and it seems to shock him as much as it does his grandfather. He gives him an apologetic squeeze before continuing in a calmer manner.  "You will stay here. Is that understood?" The hands around his shoulders tighten in a vice like grip. He grimaces, sure he will find bruises there later. 

Something tells him it's better not to argue further.

"Yes, grandfather

"Good." Thror's hand caresses the side of his face and he smiles proudly. That hand does not feel comforting as it used to. It feels rough. Proprietary.

(Thorin feels ill.)

As soon as his grandfather has left him in his rooms with a stern warning not to leave them, he creeps out. He will be damned before he lets his men down.

He will deal with the consequences later.

~O~

He sees his grandfather as soon as he steps back into is rooms. His back is turned but he can tell his grandfather is seething.

"Did I not tell you to remain here?" His voice is quiet, but there's a strange tone underlying it that makes Thorin's hands feel cold and clammy. He licks his dry lips, willing his voice not to crack.

"I am sorry, but I could not let my men go face danger alone." His grandfather does not seem to hear him. Instead, he paces back and forth like a beast trapped in a cage.

"I will not any harm come to you," he mutters quietly as if to himself. He stalks to the door and throws it open with so much force that it bangs off the wall supporting it.

"Guards!" The sudden roar of his voice wakes the guards from their boredom-induced stupor and they race to their king, hands ready on their weapons.

"Guards, you will stand in front of this door until further notice." Thorin cannot believe his ears. Is he to be locked away in his rooms like a misbehaving dwarfling?

"Grandfather!" Further protestations die on his tongue when Thror grabs him by the shoulders again, pressing painfully against the bruises he left that morning. The firelight makes his eyes look dark. The warm blue flames of a smithy have all but sizzled out.

"It's for your own good," says the King, not a hint of hesitation on his face or his voice. He gives him one final shake before cupping Thorin's face in his hands. He knocks their foreheads gently together and murmurs one more assurance that he will keep his _masmith_ safe before finally releasing him. He turns to the guards and gives his orders.

"You are not to let the prince out without my express permission." The guards trade a confused glance with each other but know better than to argue, so they take their places on both sides of the door and try to ignore the pleas of their prince when the heavy doors are closed in front of his young face.

The king pockets the key to the room and starts walking away from the door. He can hear his grandchild banging on the door, pleading for him to open them.

"Grandfather!"

"Grandfather, please!" The cry echoes around him in the long, empty corridor. He doesn't turn back.

Thorin keeps banging on the door until his fists are raw and bleeding.

~O~

He does not disobey his grandfather's orders any longer.

~O~

Thorin treads carefully among the piles of treasure. He is worried. No one has seen his grandfather in days. He has a feeling that he will find him here, amongst the sea of gold. It takes him a while but he finally finds his grandfather in the southmost corner of the treasure hall. Thor is gliding his hand's through the jewels he had denied from the elven king. They fall back into the crest like glowing, white raindrops.

Thorin resists the urge to wring his hands together. Instead, he firmly clasps them behind his back. His grandfather has yet to turn around. Either he is ignoring him or hasn't noticed he is there.

"Grandfather, you have not dined with us for days." His grandfather still doesn't turn to face him.

Irritated and sick with worry he takes few determined steps forward. "Is this gold truly more important than your family?" he demands to know, his tongue freed by anger.

"Be quiet. I will not tolerate any disrespect from you." Relieved to get a reaction, he ignores the words and steps closer to place a hand on his grandfather's shoulder.

"But we are worried. Frerin-"

Suddenly his grandfather turns around and backhands him.

So startled is he by this sudden, mad assault that the whole force of it hits him and he tumbles to the ground in an ungraceful heap. The shock of it is so vast he momentarily forgets how to move or breathe. His trembling hand slowly rises to cradle his quickly reddening cheek, his eyes staring unseeingly at the dark corner of the treasury. _What? What was that?_ His fingers meet the slickness running down his cheekbones, his grandfather's ring having scratched his face when he hit him.

 _Who was this stranger?_ Thror was strict, it was true. But he had never raised his hand against any of them.

Thror kneels next to him, tears of regret in his eyes. "I'm sorry, _masmith_. I'm so sorry, please forgive me. I do not know what came over me. I love you."

He lets his grandfather embrace him, the skin above his eye still bleeding shallowly and unease curling in his stomach.

It's grandfather. Of course, it is. His grandfather loves him, he couldn't have possibly laid his hands on him on purpose. It was an accident. Just an accident.

"I love you," Thror says and brings him closer still.

_See, nothing to be afraid of._

~O~

He tries to make sure that his siblings are never left alone with his grandfather, taking blame for all their silly youthful escapades. Whatever his siblings do, it's his fault.

Needlessly said Thror is not pleased. And he makes sure to make it known.

Of course, it's a fitting punishment. He did do something he was not supposed to. His grandfather has the right to punish him. Even if he did not actually do anything. And his grandfather always apologises afterwards. It's not his fault he cannot always control his temperament.

He will protect them from this, he thinks when he dabs a cloth against his bleeding lip. He balks at the thought.

Protect them from what? His grandfather? What a ridiculous thought.

His grandfather loves him.

~O~

He hides his bruises as best as he can, borrowing the creams and lotions his sister uses, to cover them. He is grateful that Thror does not deal more serious damage than a few backhands across his face. That would be much harder to hide.

(It does not occur to him until years later, what a horrible thing it was to be grateful for.)

~O~

There are a few times when he almost tells someone. The first time is after his grandfather almost strangles him in a fit of rage. (He had held him in his arms for an hour after that, telling him he was sorry and that he loved him.)

They are sitting in the royal quarters, having a meal without their grandfather. It such a common occurrence now that no one bothers to mention his absence. Thorin rubs his throat, pushing his food around the plate. His throat is still a bit sore and he does not wish to agitate it. He startles a bit when Thrain asks him a question.

"Is something wrong Thorin? You have been awfully quiet lately." He looks at his father from behind his brows and sees the love and concern in his gaze. It makes him want to say something. He raises his head, clears his throat. He opens his mouth, willing himself to say the words. _Nothing._

He cannot. He could not possibly do that to his grandfather. His grandfather loves him. He has his reasons.

"It's nothing," he says, his sore throat making his voice sound raspier than usual.

"Just a cold."

The second time is after one of his weekly sword practices with Dwalin. He flinches when Dwalin lays an arm across his shoulder, expecting a blow. He berates himself for his stupidity. Of course, Dwalin is not going to hit him. He prays his best friend did not notice, but he, of course, lives only to vex him.

"What's botherin' ya, Thorin?"

"It's nothing," he says, brushing the warrior's arm off his shoulder. He bends down to pick up his shirt from the floor, determined to ignore Dwalin's eyes burning a hole through the back of his head.

"Whate'er ya say. Ya don't ha'e to tell me but trust me when I say I'll find out."

Thorin watches him go. The words taste bitter on his tongue. _It's nothing._

It becomes a mantra of sorts. Someone will ask: Is something wrong? And he will answer: It's nothing.

It's nothing.

_Nothing._

It continues like that for a long time. There's no change in this routine of questions and nothings. Not until the roar of the dragon is heard across the land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Masmith=Jewel that is young
> 
> Fun fact: Thorin is 24 when the dragon attacks. In human years he would be 12.
> 
> Please comment! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Might edit this later. I won't promise that I will update regularly, but I will try my best.
> 
> Please comment! <3


End file.
